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I can think of better ways to die. A naked woman’s body lying face up with a hole the size of an apple in her lower belly, dried blood all over clothes, I’m assuming hers, bundled up next to her. My boss, Chipman, had been here a while. “Chipman, what the…” I start. His stare says “Shut up and know your place”.

He talks me through what’s known; unidentified female victim, no signs of sexual assault, one large hole in her stomach caused by blunt force trauma like a very hard lunge with a baseball bat, not a gunshot. Looking at the scene I’d have been happier if it was a gunshot. I’ve dealt with many of those, even had a couple myself, both made for some sweet paid recovery time.

Forensics seem to get quicker and quicker with these things as the years go by. Time was we’d wait weeks for them to go through everything. The body was discovered last night and this morning I have a large portable evidence container (you’d call it a box) on my makeshift desk in the morgue. I don’t like it down here, it’s cold and dark but I’m free of distractions. I use scalpel to cut the tape holding the lid on (would’ve been a more efficient murder weapon). I’ve got 2 sealed plastic bags inside. One with the blood stained clothes, the other with a brown book. Dried blood doesn’t stain red like you’d think from movies but brown, shitty, kinda like being impaled on a baseball bat.

The report states all the genetic materials recovered (dried blood) from the clothes and book were Jane’s (Jane Doe, unidentified female victim, try to keep up). The apartment was leased to a Susannah Barker and at the moment we’re working under the assumption that Jane is Susannah.

Chipman has said he’s not happy with me on the case, very old school, probably doesn’t approve of female detectives, let alone one investigating murder. I start with the book. Pages thick with blood. The first few snap and crumble. I pull the old anglepoise lamp over the book, try to find something useful.

It’s a diary. Now’s April, the first few months are so clotted it’ll take weeks of careful recovery to reveal anything readable. By the time it gets to March pages are only half covered. Some readable. Mostly nonsense.

I keep a diary because it’s my job to note stuff down, people who keep diary’s for fun usually don’t have much experience of interest to put in them. That doesn’t stop Jane wittering on about nothing much. Entries about the weather, getting a cat, work being dull. Jane is the most boring murder victim, if she wasn’t already dead I’d be considering administering a blunt force trauma to her head. I’ll leave that thought out of the official report.

Entry day before yesterday, not writing, some kind of strange images, a language I can’t figure out like Chinese symbols but not, I know what they are, some of them, I have “peace and respect” tattooed on my back, though it could say “I’m a whore” for all I know, drunken mistake of a much younger me. These symbols mean something and could be worthy of a report but I want have something worthy to report before I pop up to Super Sexist Chipman’s office.

There’s a noise, a clang, like a wooden spoon hammering onto an empty pan. I look up startled. There’s nobody else down here, the forensic medical examiner had finished his job and he’s somewhere warm upstairs finishing off his report. Why the fuck was I set up down here with a couple of dead bodies for company including Jane or Susannah and a bloody diary? Another sound, a rattle. What the hell? There are two sections to this morgue, the storage area and the workspace I’ve been assigned to go through all the evidence down here by “It’s a Man’s World” Chipman for god knows what reason.

I get up, stretch my legs and head over to glass partition and look through at Jane’s table. She’s not there. What the? I double take, check the desk, check the table. Where the hell’s she gone? She can’t just have got up and walked out. I unlock the door to the fridge, step in quiet as a mouse. If this is someone’s idea of a joke he’ll be glad I left my gun upstairs. Someone’s stood in the corner, I flip on the lights. Jane, she’s wearing a white lab coat, unbuttoned, her hair crusted with dried blood, the gaping wound in her midsection still very much apparent. She can’t possibly be alive. She opens her mouth and exhales, her mouth makes the shapes but the words won’t come. I need a drink. I blink and she’s infront of me, left hand around my neck. Strong for a dead girl, I claw at her hand but she’s got a firm grip. My knee goes up between her legs and I punch her in the face twice, doesn’t even flinch.

Her right hand pulls at my shirt and then it’s inside my gut, in less than a minute I’ll bleed out, I grit my teeth and look down. She’s pulling out parts of me, lower intestine and inserting it into herself replacing what’s missing like a biological plumber. She lets go and I hit the ground. I’m dragged to the makeshift desk, she picks up the diary and coughes, “Hi” she says with my voice.

She crouches down, faces me and speaks using parts of me she’s just removed “Please understand, your sacrifice is necessary to prevent many more deaths. I’m so sorry.” She holds my hand tightly an then she’s gone, grabs some of her bloody clothes and leaves. The floor is cold, I can think of better ways to die.

So I tried to upload this but Facebook’s complex image filter algorithms decided it wasn’t a chocolate Santa but something much more devious. So much so that I was logged out and had to log in again.

On logging in I was told I had to prove myself as human so captcha image was completed and then I had to prove myself as Jim so I had to identify ten photo’s of people on my friends list (some were baby photo’s and I had no idea).

Then it sent me on a quest to snatch the holy grail carved by the hands of Jesus from the jaws of a 20 foot long hungry alligator before swimming the length of the Amazon river blindfolded. Don’t get me started on the half mile walk over hot coals I had to complete (too much Facebook, why can’t you believe I’m Jim, I know his password).

Just to make sure I’d not made a mistake I opened the photo in Photoshop, saved it as the most basic .JPG file type I could muster and re-uploaded it to ensure I wasn’t making things up. I was automatically logged out again. I had to put in my mobile number, receive a text message verification code to get into my account and read some spiel about community guidelines for what you can and can’t share on Facebook. What? It’s a chocolate Santa…

Anyway, here’s the image I tried (and was not allowed) to upload on Facebook indicating that some poor programmer at Facebook HQ had the job of building a program that makes sure you don’t upload cock pics to Facebook. What a job. Suddenly mine doesn’t seem to bad….

Terminator is being remade. Young, attractive cast being assembled, leading lady without dodgy 80’s perm playing Sarah Connor, special effects systems being upgraded, big headline making budget being saved up in Hollywoods piggybanks, all that stuff. Bit of a shame really. As a teenager I read the Terminator comics and they were awesome, expanding on the universe laid out in the first two films, there were a whole slew of interesting stories that kicked ass. Some stories were better than the films. A variety of different characters introduced. There was one about a different Sarah Connor (on her honeymoon with her husband John) and the time travelling soldier from the future come hobo sent to protector her called “One Shot” which was awesome. A story of a whole squad of marines firing themselves from the future into the 90’s to fight other Terminators and dodgy haircuts in the war against the machines. Why is it, with a whole wealth of other stories already written (seriously, some of them were awesome) are they remaking the same story again (like they did with Men In Black two times) when they could expand on the idea and create something new and more exciting?

What about a narcissistic lesbian who travels back in time and gets romantic with herself? *receives note* Oh, it’s a family feature? What the? The original Terminator was an 18 cert horror movie. OK then, how about a Terminator sent back in time to kill George Michael before he records Last Christmas by Wham *is passed other note* Ok fine, George MIchael wasn’t part of the Terminator cannon and he did record some pretty good songs AFTER Last Christmas..

At the very least they could try to tone down the hype so the surprise isn’t ruined, if you went into T2 cold, i.e. not knowing Arnold was the good terminator this time it would’ve been really surprising. Like that twist halfway through District 9 you did not see coming (be honest, you were shocked too) but was still awesome. Every time I watch T2 I try to think about how I’d feel if I didn’t know the twist is that the bad guy from the last movie is the good guy in this one and it’s kinda ruined because they put it in the trailer, the main surprise was in the trailer, whole surprise ruined because we knew going in what the twist was. Hitchcock would be spinning in his grave.

Why can’t they make something good (like T2) and keep a lid on the major surprises, like JJ Abrams pretends to but then doesn’t, but sorta does, but really doesn’t to the point where I want to send a robot into the past to kill him as a child for fucking up Star Trek so badly.

Am I the only one who watched the first iPhone announcement all those years ago and saw a dude who looked like Skeletor basically telling the entire world to “Obey” and buy his products?

Am I the only one who ran out, kicked ass and chewed gum but ran outta gum?

Guess so. Just upgraded to Sony Xperia SP and it’s pretty awesome despite a lack of flash support it’s the mutts nutts and not proprietary or in anyway locked so you have to pay Apple to do stuff to it if you choose. I even developed an app for my stag weekend on my old Android. OK it was a shitty app (but it was Purple and therefore any criticism is invalid because: PURPLE) it wasn’t difficult and I didn’t need a license to do it. So yeah, Obey; buy Apple products if you wish. Have they announced a new phone or something? I’ve not been paying attention.

OK so someone I follow on Youtube entered a competition and in support I decided to make a video using a shitty old laptop and smartphone. It took an afternoon and is essentially rubbish but was fun to cut together and if I can get some more people involved I might make more of these at some point.

My best friend Keith told me I am an awful film maker and that I should never upload anything to youtube ever again, thanks for the constructive criticism Keith. I love you too (I really do love him, because he’s awesome.)

About a year ago I was gainfully employed by Mr Chris Bradley to write some stuff on his Publicate website. He offered me a price per article and I liked the idea of being paid to write stuff, this is something most freelance writers prefer to being offered money and then being told their work isn’t good enough or my favorite; that there were too many applicants and they’re going to make a contest of this job meaning you must run through rings of fire, remove a live dragons tooth while writing something that’d make Shakespeare blush whilst escaping the dragons jaw unscathed before they’ll consider paying you. Not that I don’t mind slaying dragons but that wasn’t the job I applied for. Besides, are you going to buy me a new dragonslayer lance? No? I’m supposed to use my own for your poxy £5, you know these freelance sites aren’t cheap to use for freelancers?

Anyway, Mr Bradley was a charming young man, he came to my house and showed me the lovely Publicate beta system and explained to me how it was going to revolutionise the way people use the internet, that he and his buddies had put it together in their last year of university and were preparing to unleash it upon an unsuspecting world. I thought, well, you’re not asking me to slay dragons? Just write, yeah?

The one thing was Publicate needed at that time was content to show its true capability and I was invited to create numerous accounts to bulk up the content of publicate so I re-wrote some articles I had an interest in and uploaded them. Chris was lovely enough to not send back the cup of tea I made him (extra strong) and to pay me for all the work I did on the project without any fussing around most freelancers are subject to come payday. What a lovely chap.

We parted ways after a while, Chris was happy with the work I’d done for him and I’d enjoyed playing with the beta and alpha build of the site; It’s very shiny and seems like an interesting creative space. Being honest I don’t completely understand it but it’s shiny and well-presented and from what I get from young folk I’ve spoken to since that restraining order lapsed; shiny things are where it’s at right now, look at Apple, they’ve been churning out the same product for nearly 10 years now and it’s selling so well simply because it’s shinier than the competition.

Given its still going a year later I’ve no doubt it’ll do well. Thing is nearly a year since my meeting with Chris Bradley (who was a very lovely guy, the kind of guy I wouldn’t mind my teenage daughter introducing me to, if I had a teenage daughter, and he was a few years younger, bad simile; the point is I liked him) I’ve been receiving emails from Publicate “YOU ARE BEING FOLLOWED BY SOMEONE ON PUBLICATE”, here’s the thing, I’m not ON Publicate anymore. That some folk saw and liked my stuff on there is flattering and that they chose to follow my articles on there might be disappointed to find I’m not writing stuff there but here so if you want to follow my stuff 1. Thanks very much, 2, I’m here or on twitter as @MrJimBentley but I don’t do Publicate.

You might look over my previous entries here and thing “Christ, he doesn’t do much here either” and up till now you’d be right, however I am resurrecting this blog from the ashes of old entries into something new and wonderful. Say howdy in the comments and if someone could explain Publicate to me in a way a grumpy 35 year old guy would understand, I’d appreciate it.